Reverberation
by Windswift
Summary: A few centimeters lower, and Hatori doesn't forgive himself. - Chapter 95 Alternate Reality


Disclaimer: Fruits Basket belongs to Natsuki Takaya

The 97 spoiler is waived because as far as I recall, Hatori isn't one of the ones who thinks in terms of it.

_**Reverberation**_

Hatori returns from changing in a room just down the hall. Handing over the final kimono layer, he ignores the look of the older maid—she disapproves of the way he simply drops each layer of clothing to the floor as it's shed. But Hatori holds little love for the New Years ritual with its elaborate outfit, and he hardly treats his own clothes with great care.

They pack the under-kimono into its box with the same reverence they treated the rest of the pieces. Hatori straightens his tie; the familiar press of it around his collar is far more comfortable than that flowing costume. The evening might be salvageable, he thinks absently, if he can keep Shigure and Ayame shut up and prevent them from discussing the dance for the rest of the night. Not that he's holding out much hope for that.

Still, he allows the optimism of thinking that those two are the worst of the evening. Akito must be in a fine mood; Isuzu may be skipping the banquet, but this year Yuki returned without a fuss. They can all bear the mood in the house much easier.

Shigure meets him in the hall to drag him back to the main room. He runs a hand through his hair, his mouth open either to apologize for his earlier teasing or to torment Hatori further. But he never manages to actually say something, because at that point the shattering and a strangled scream interrupt him.

They can both see through the doorway; Akito stands over Yuki with the neck of a jug tightly gripped in his hand, yelling. In some way the situation is more horrifying because Yuki wasn't expecting the violence. None of them were.

Only Kureno seems able to move for the moment. He grabs Akito's arms to restrain him, and pulls him away from Yuki before their god stomps away in a huff. Hatori doesn't know what has the others frozen in their places, but the sight of Yuki crouched on the floor with a hand over his face, and the vase in Akito's hand, makes his heart skip unpleasantly.

His throat tightens with the weight of memories he intended never to relive outside of his nightmares. Hatori almost wishes someone would start screaming hysterically. Then at least the situations would feel less similar.

Akito still hasn't realized that people are fragile. They break as easily as the porcelain jug he cracked against Yuki's skull, and once damaged, both are equally impossible to put perfectly right again. They will never be the same.

Shigure follows Akito down the hall to argue with him. Perhaps Akito has realized the seriousness, because his protests are loud and defensive.

"He'll be fine. He has to be! Hatori was fine! And it's Yuki's fault for saying those things in the first place. Why didn't you stop him then—why are you worried about him and not me?!"

Hatori's insides plummet again at the words. By the time he manages to start forward into the room—he moves so slowly, but the air is suddenly too thick to wade through and he's walking through a nightmare—he can see the blood dripping from between Yuki's fingers. Yuki's breaths are almost gasping, but Hatori notes absently that it's a side-effect of controlling the pain rather than a flare of his asthma. He knows from experience; he's sure of that now.

Haru sits at Yuki's side, one of the first there. He offers his cousin the first clean towel he could find to staunch the flow of blood. Haru glances in Hatori's direction—to see what's taking him so long, he knows—but the look holds no accusation.

Even Ayame knows the injury is serious. He hovers nervously, but flits around like a shy butterfly too tentative to land. He fears injuring Yuki further far too much to rashly touch him, and he knows his proclamations and declarations would only be a hindrance.

The part of Hatori's mind that is still sensible and rational without resorting to auto-pilot wonders if he'd like to go somewhere to be privately sick. His head hurts too much from Kana's sobbing, and he doesn't feel confident facing yet another failure to protect the people he's sworn to keep safe from the repetitions of history.

Despite that, he finds himself uncovering Yuki's face just long enough to verify the injury. Even after Hatori closes his eyes, he can still see the nightmare he prayed to never witness on anyone else's face; for a moment he worries it is permanently etched onto the back of his eyelids. Then the walls of ice are firmly in place again. The wound is painful, yes, and the blood is disconcerting, but it isn't fatal and may not be as serious as it looks. The reassurance doesn't relieve Hatori at all, however.

Although pale and a little shaky, Yuki obediently stands and allows Hatori to support him to the car. For once he doesn't argue about being taken to a hospital. Hatori dimly notices Shigure assisting him from the other side, and Yuki seems equally oblivious. Shock, Hatori assesses, which isn't at all surprising considering the circumstances. He may even be suffering the effects himself—he murmurs all sorts of gentle and calming things to Yuki, but he doesn't register the words from his own mouth.

The emergency room passes in a hazy blur. Hatori knows the technique to be self-defense for the mind; he has long been perfectly capable of acting without feeling. When he is less tired, he'll realize his mind preserved the memories in perfect clarity that will haunt him for years.

And now he has two sets of them. The same incident reverberates in his nightmares in various incarnations, and now Akito has given Hatori's hell personal material from both perspectives.

Shigure sits by the bed, helping with the observation. After that preventative measure, if no complications occur, they plan to take him home to rest. They'll do whatever it takes to keep him away from the Main House for the time being.

Yuki leans back against the pillows, his face pale and drawn. The gauze eye patch fits snugly over his left eye. His hands and face have been recently scrubbed of blood, although little can be done for the spatters on his clothes.

"I'm sorry." Hatori finds himself speaking almost without intending to, "I should have stepped in. I should have acted sooner—"

"I don't blame you," Yuki responds. Tiredness and resignation mark the lines of his face. He murmurs in a voice more for his own ears, "The only one I blame for this is myself."

A hint of bitterness colors the last comment, but Yuki's tone holds no accusation. Still, something is different.

He's quieter, Hatori realizes. Lying on the bed, Yuki looks smaller. The fight has gone out of him, the spirit he nurtured and maintained through the past year that Hatori had grown secure recently in seeing. For tonight, all pretenses and progress are dropped.

Physically Yuki may make a full recovery, though the intangible scars of this night will stay with Hatori for as long as he remembers. Yuki may even be strong enough to recover mentally and emotionally once again, and regain his acquired contentment and self-esteem.

But if that spark dies forever, Hatori will never forgive himself.

**…****  
Owari  
…**

_-Windswift_


End file.
